


That Mobster Fic

by Rrrowr



Category: Glee, Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Crossover, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine finishes up one job and gets the details of another. Choosing not to go through with it will not make his life easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Marksman

**Author's Note:**

> Series of snapshots that culminate into something that is only sort of cohesive. I never pretended this was good.

His brother’s always been the one that’s good with guns — fast on the draw and quicker with the shot — and while Arthur’s accuracy is frightening, Blaine is almost as good from a mile off when he’s given a good scope and the weather report. He’s never been the type for the kills that were up close and personal. It’s something to do with waking up to Arthur washing his face and seeing the water drain away pink.

Blaine likes distance. He likes the quiet that comes with it. He can find a place that’s up high and far off, listening to the wind and watching the clouds while the calculations go through his head. It’s math and physics, is all — accounting for wind and travel time. Further off, there’s the curvature of the Earth to think of too, but Blaine’s never had too much trouble with it. Dad says he’s a natural at it, which Blaine supposes is true. Adjustments to angles and knowing when to squeeze the trigger — Blaine just always seems to know how and when. Maybe that makes him a prodigy — whatever. He just knows that he likes being able to stretch out on top of a table near a window with his rifle and a scope that puts his view right where he needs it.

It’s kind of like a video game this way. The explosion of red in the distance is just this splash of color at the end of his scope — quickly there and quickly gone — and that’s all he needs to see before he’s on the move. His ear piece buzzes with information — tidbits about police movements and the status of his transport — and Blaine packs his gun away in sections. It’s dirty but that doesn’t matter because it'll be disposed of properly within a few hours. In the meantime, it’ll fit neatly into his backpack.

The rifle case bounces heavily against his back as he takes the stairs down seven flights. It’ll be another two minutes before he meets his transport, and in the meantime, cop cars are screaming down the street. No one notices a teenager in a sports coat and the backpack is inconspicuous. The car’s waiting for him at the end of a long set of blocks, and when he approaches, a hulky guy that Blaine recognizes as Eames hops out to open the trunk for him. 

“Did good,” Eames compliments as Blaine puts both his backpack and his coat in. Both will be taken care of by someone else from now on. Blaine drops the ear piece in there for good measure. “The news is reporting a successful hit.”

“If he doesn’t get to the hospital, that is,” Blaine remarks.

“The bedridden are easy marks anyway,” Eames replies, ushering Blaine into the backseat. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, you’re already being put on a new case.”

The details for his next job are in a manila envelope in the seat next to him. Blaine pulls out the paperwork — the biography on the target, multiple glossy eight-by-tens, and a blissfully short list of known associates. His brows furrow as he goes through it all.

“Awful lot of information here,” he says when he comes across the short description of his required tasks. “I’m being sent to an all-boys private school for a job? Since when did sniping require a cover story?”

Eames shrugs. “Since now, I guess. What’s it matter?”

Blaine starts to snarl as he continues reading. “Apparently, they want it to look natural.” He slams the stack of papers to the side and leans into the front seat to snap, “What the hell are they hiring me for then?”

Turning a little to pat the top of Blaine’s head, Eames says, “Be a good boy and do the job you’ve been given, hm? I’ll let Arthur know what a good sport you’ve been about taking over the hit.”

“Ugh, of course you take his side,” Blaine groans, swatting away Eames’ hand. “I don’t want to do it. You know I’m no good with this kind of thing.”

This kind of thing being close hits, where getting up close and personal with the mark was not just expected, but encouraged.

“Look, this isn’t anything to worry about, is it?” Eames asks, twisting so that he can look at Blaine properly. “Consider it a learning experience. Besides, you’re going to —” He reached to turn the papers toward him. “— fucking Westerville, Ohio. We got some people there if you need the help, yeah? And if you need more help, just give me a ring and I’ll have your back the same day, alright?”

Blaine twists his mouth at Eames’ reassuring expression. He spits out a, “Fine,” and Eames’ face takes a turn for delighted. “But I’m not going to like it and don’t blame me when this all goes to shit.”

Eames pats Blaine’s knee and turns back to the wheel. “Got it.”

As the ignition turns and Eames starts to pull the car away from the curb, Blaine scoops up the paperwork to go through more thoroughly and barks, “This is all Arthur’s fault, am I right?”

“Absolutely!” crows Eames with a tone that betrays his sense victory. “Completely Arthur’s fault.”

“Right, okay,” Blaine huffs. “Just so we’re clear."


	2. Quick to the Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine has a license to kill, but he's making the choice not to use it.

Blaine is standing in the foyer of Dalton in the frame of a doorway — one of the tall ones that just spreads into a hallway — and he’s watching Kurt talk to one of the other students. Kurt looks happy, happier than Blaine’s seen him in a while, happy enough that there’s teeth in his smiles and a squint to his eyes. He's so happy that his cheeks kind of turn red as he rocks to the front of his feet, and Blaine tries really hard to feel bad about standing there, watching Kurt while he thinks about how killing Burt is going to rip all that away. 

This will be where he decides that he can’t do the hit on Burt. Here, with the swell and swarm of clean cut uniforms and clean cut hair, is where he’ll feel that unfamiliar clench in his chest and name it _guilt_ or _fear_ or _regret_ — or he’ll call it something better, like _love_. Because love is one of those good things, it's a good thing, isn't it, that he’s choosing not to take a life so that someone else can stay happy? 

So he’ll think _love_ and then Kurt will turn just so toward him, at this angle that spreads light into his hair and throws contrast along his jaw. It’ll be like Kurt’s glowing in the sunlight as he catches Blaine’s eye and winks at him a little in that — _just a moment, I’ll be with you in just a moment_ — way of his that makes breathing that much harder for Blaine. When Kurt finishes up his conversation, he’ll trot toward Blaine, but it’ll feel like it takes ages because Blaine will be just soaking in the details of him — his smile and the bounce in his step and the carefully ironed lines of his uniform and how Kurt is, yes, taller than him and handsome and just so, so happy. 

Kurt says: “Hey.” But when he says it, he means _I can’t help looking at you_ and he means _I want to hold your hand_ and he means _I wouldn’t mind at all if you liked me like I like you_. He means multitudes of things in that one word and Blaine can’t know it — not yet.

So, when Kurt says, “Hey, you ready for practice?” that’s all Blaine hears. Nothing else, nothing more. It doesn’t matter anyway because, even if he doesn’t know that Kurt loves him and never would want to see him hurt, Blaine just wants Kurt to be happy.

And so he goes to practice with Kurt and goes to class instead of making plans for a hit and is, in all the ways that matter, a normal Dalton attendee.


End file.
